Lyne was a blacksmith by trade, but quick to offer whatever other talents were in demand. He supplied fuel for Wright’s steamboat, for example, and though a far cry from wealthy he earned respect by his industriousness. This quality, and a private chat with Wright, secured him the contract to build the new gaol. He was a stout fellow. Only damn fools ever chose to wrestle him. His thick reddish hair and beard were trimmed regularly, twice a year. Shoulders rounded with muscle, bare hands as hardy as most men’s gloved in leather, and his single-minded way of getting things done naturally put folks in mind of an oversized beaver. And now they had every opportunity to observe him at work. The site for the jail was smack in the middle of the makeshift town; deliberately in plain view for any troublemakers.
Harry Connick Jr.’s voice was crooning from the open deck doors off the living room, when Dan met the guests outside with both hands full of purple lilacs fresh cut from his garden.
“Hi there, handsome,” Bea called out.
“Welcome!” Dan grinned with open arms. Across the green yard a small orchard of trees were in full bloom, plums with white blossoms, cherries with pink. A brick path led into a pleasant maze among flowerbeds and shrubs. Bea and Kate began asking about various plants as they all followed Dan for a quick first tour of the property.
“Your flowers seem weeks ahead of ours,” Ian commented.
“Soda Creek has its own sub-climate,” Dan replied, “that’s one thing we love about living here. We have more frost-free days than anywhere in the Cariboo, Gord could tell you the number. Our neighbour grew melons last year.”
“No kidding?”
In the kitchen they laid out the dishes, opened a bottle of wine. A flurry of conversation arose, with Dan darting back and forth setting the table. Not wanting to get in the way, Ian took a beer and walked into the front room.
Gordon was at the stereo adjusting the music. They said hello. Ian stood in the open deck doorway, admiring the little orchard, which extended back to a dry clay bank dotted with sagebrush.
“This is an amazing spot you have here.” “Thank you. It’s a bit of a commute to town, but otherwise we like it.”
Ian had had only one previous conversation with Gordon, at the wedding reception a few months earlier. Ian recalled Kate’s explanation to him prior to the event: Dan and Gordon met Cindy in Australia when they were on holiday; the recent marriage of Gordon and Cindy facilitated her immigration to Canada, and it also served as a cover for Gordon at his office and in business. Williams Lake was not a town where one wanted to be openly gay. So it made sense. An inventive form of theatre, Ian thought.
Gordon was about his own size and build, dressed in jeans and a rugby shirt. His appearance and manner gave no hint of his private life. He had dark hair, close-cut, and often a serious expression that belied his wry sense of humour. He smiled as the others came through into the room, said hi to Kate and Bea. Dan came behind with the chips and salsa and set these on an old steamer trunk that served as a coffee table.
Bea knelt down on a sheepskin carpet, and she purred — just as X would have, Ian thought. Dan sat beside Gordon on the leather loveseat, for a moment at least, the kind of check-in couples do with one another. Gordon calmly sipped his beer. Dan was hyper and chatty, pleased to be entertaining it seemed. He was extra well-groomed, with blond hair, clipped red beard, and a charming attentive personality.
Dan had a penchant for buying antiques. There was a rolltop desk and colonial buffet, glass-fronted bookshelves, and these were well laden with ceramics and knick-knacks. Among these were several miniature wooden boxes, some inlaid with brass or silver, which drew Ian’s attention, and he stood to examine them more closely. Two were in the shape of hearts. Another was oval shaped, appeared to be carved from a single piece of teak, with an elaborate motif of vines carved on the lid. Ian opened it. Inside was a collection of old keys, each unique by its cut or material. Ian wondered what mysterious locks they had opened. One was thick, crusted iron, looked centuries old, like the key to a pirate’s chest. Turning back to the conversation, he noticed Gordon watching him. From this look Ian felt as if he should not have handled or opened the little box, that he may have seen something he was not meant to. He set it carefully back in place.
“Where is Cindy?” Bea asked, a bit too innocently.
“She’s working until seven, and she’ll probably stay over with her friend in town,” Dan replied. This answer created a sense of relief in the room. On the drive out, Kate and Bea had touched on the fact that the living arrangement with Cindy was not without its problems. She didn’t like the drive or the rural lifestyle. Ian had met her only briefly at the wedding reception and she had not seemed the least bit friendly. Plus she had a harsh Aussie accent that brought to mind a roughneck man with a hat brim pinned on one side. Dan got along with her better than her husband Gordon did, or perhaps was just more patient. He now explained that in planning their cover operation they had agreed to maintain their roles for year, when a divorce would not likely be scrutinized by Immigration.
“We’ve heard of officers showing up without notice. They interrogate the married partners separately, and even ask questions like: In which position did you last have sex?”
“No!” said Kate, with no love for authority at the best of times. Dan had made the idea sound sinister. Ian had to agree with him — and did not want his tax dollars being spent on such surveillance.
“Yes, it happens,” Dan anxiously turned to Gord, “and that would throw a wrench in things, wouldn’t it?”
“A fucking wrench, you could say.” He smiled.
Ian laughed aloud. Dan groaned at the pun, and left for the kitchen, followed by Bea and Kate.
They ate around an antique walnut table with burls in the grain. Kate commented how lovely it was. Dan said he had his eye on another one, a new antique table, that is. He had made two quiches that were both tasty, especially the asparagus and brie. He poured Vinho Verde for Bea, Kate and himself. Gordon and Ian stuck to beer.
In the circle of five at the table, Ian was the only one not employed as a professional. Gordon was a chartered accountant in a firm his father had started, the others were social workers. Ian worked in a sawmill, and he wondered what Gordon thought of that.
A few weeks earlier Dan and Gordon had made a spontaneous trip to England during a seat sale. They described a few sights they had seen, including a particular gay nightclub in London that had been an eye-opener.
“I mean, of course, for a couple of down-home boys from the Cariboo. Yowza!” Dan laughed.
“Yeah right,” Bea snorted.
Kate and Ian talked of their own wedding trip back to New Brunswick the fall before, and the weekend honeymoon in New York. They took in a couple of shows, went to the Met, and bought a cartload of novels at Strand bookstore.
“I can’t wait to get married,” said Dan, with a glance at Gord. “We’re thinking about the fall of next year, after the divorce and adios Cindy, you know. Maui here we come. It will be legal and everything.”
The women exclaimed joy in unison at this announcement.
“You are all invited,” Gordon said, “but the airfare is not provided.”
“I would not miss it,” Bea cried, tears and all.
“Hey, that’s great,” Ian nodded. “Be a good excuse to try some surfing anyway.” Kate kicked his shin under the table.
Once again, Ian thought that their story was more inventive than some fiction people read. He imagined all the different points of view involved, that of Cindy say, or Dan, Gordon, their parents, the neighbours, themselves as guests first at the wedding then at this Sunday brunch.
“Time for dessert.” Dan cleared their plates. He then put out a tray with grapes, strawberries, and three kinds of cheese, including roquefort, which Ian loved.
Bea went back to the subject of Gestapo-style bureaucrats, and made some comment about her current supervisor at the ministry. The three social workers began talking shop, which
left Gordon and Ian on their own for conversation.
“So, how did you like Australia?” Ian asked.
“Great trip,” Gordon nodded. He recounted the places they had visited, from Ayers Rock to the Barrier Reef. He described the coral he’d seen while snorkelling. “Have you travelled?”
“Somewhat, mainly in Europe and Israel,” Ian replied. “I saw the coral reefs in the Gulf of Eliat, north of the Red Sea.”
“I knew a guy who hung out down there for a while, can’t recall the name of the place.”
“Dahab, or Sharm-e-Sheikh maybe?”
“Yes, that’s it. You were there? This guy made it sound like paradise.”
“Ah, I wouldn’t say that. Maybe it was once upon a time.”
“Did you do any surfing there?” Gordon asked with a wry smile.
Touché, thought Ian. It was not malicious, but Gordon had scored his point. Ian smiled and shook his head.
The others were laughing about something else. As their mirth subsided, Bea put her hand to her throat and sipped her wine. For a stricken moment — as she did that with her hand, that mannerism — she became Ian’s former girlfriend X before his eyes. A theory he’d heard sprang to mind: that we’re all part of a staged existence, there are really only so many thousand people on earth, fate moves us around as it likes, and sometimes the same person can play entirely different roles in our lives at separate times. Ian did not like this theory. Bea’s resemblance to X was no joke.
“Hey,” he blurted out, so that everyone turned his way at once. “I’d like to have a look at that old jail down the road. How about a walk, a bit of fresh air?”
The tiers of the gaol rose in steady progression, three or four logs each day, and, as each wall comprised ten, this provided two full weeks of work for Lyne. Logs were each roughly squared on two sides, hoisted into place with a rope and squeaking pulley, then the ends were dovetailed to join with others. These notches took the time. He used a tarnished steel rule, a thick carpenter pencil, a swede saw, and a hatchet sharp enough to shave with, though he didn’t shave. Surely he knew the building would stand. Yet he might not have guessed that even the black line of his pencil would prove so indelible, defy weather, remain visible more than a century later. He kept his mind on his work, rarely acknowledged passersby, and gave only the slightest nod to those who lingered at all to admire his craftsmanship. Of course there were some who hinted they might have done the job a bit differently, and a few who were forthright with critical suggestions; if addressed directly, Lyne would pause, give polite heed to the speaker, consider the advice offered. Then he’d get back to work, and do things the way he’d always had in mind. As there was not a great deal of other daytime entertainment in Soda Creek, after a few days the jail builder had attracted a regular following.
Among those who watched were an old fiddler, and a goat. No claim of ownership or open fraternity existed between this unlikely pair, but each afternoon they arrived about the same time, sat back in the shade and together kept an eye on Lyne’s progress. The fiddler was bent and grey, but still given to lively moods, when he would accompany Lyne by sawing the strings with his cherry-wood bow. The goat was a scruffy renegade who lurked around town stealing what he pleased, a persistent nuisance as he managed to elude any who tried to catch him. The fiddler dipped and swayed upon his stump, music appearing like colours in mist as he played, Lyne worked with his axe, and the wily billy tapped his cloven hoof, sometimes danced a cocky little jig.
Ants ran in the dust. Gold seekers scurried north. To get rich! Get rich and go back with a great story many dreamed. Pictured themselves garbed in tailored clothes, dining with women in the finer restaurants of San Francisco.
The five new friends and the dog named Billy Barker strolled along the gravel road toward the old jail. Little evidence of the old town was left; other buildings had been swept away by flood and fire and time. Dan and Gordon’s place was one of just half a dozen homes, all relatively modern, on the short dead-end road that ran parallel to the Fraser River. The ground was still damp from rain the night before, and a few puddles lingered full of sunlight.
All the criss-cross dialogue around the table, mixed with the inner voices in his head, had stirred up anxiety in Ian. These spells struck him out of the blue sometimes. He knew there was no more sense to it than a little dust twister that appears then is gone. He felt much better in the open air, and was excited to examine Lyne’s old gaol.
It was situated down a low bank from the road, and Gordon led the way on a short dirt path through brush. He too was interested in the story, and the building itself. Ian followed, while the others waited on the road.
The jail was constructed from adzed logs, joined by dovetail corners, only about twelve-feet square. Old axe marks showed on the weathered silver wood. The peaked shake roof had rotted through in several places, amazing that it had not collapsed altogether under winter snow. The building had not been restored, yet remained remarkably solid after so many decades. Because willows and vines had grown up against the walls and doorway, Gordon and Ian had to push their way through to enter.
The walls inside, less bleached by sun and rain, retained a reddish colour, with the grain and knots in the timbers as visible as ever. The original bars remained in the small windows, eight feet up the walls. Another larger window and a second door had later been cut. Over the past century people had lived in the jail from time to time, hobos and hippies had taken temporary refuge, cooked and slept in there. Various initials were carved into the walls. In the empty jamb of the original doorway there were bolt holes left from the hinges. Ian pictured a thick slab door, with a black iron lock.
“Apparently the fellow who built this was also the first prisoner,” Gordon said. He stood with his hands in his pockets, looking around.
“Yes, I’ve heard that too,” Ian said. A lovely bit of irony, he thought. Lyne had known there was no escape, because the man who’d built the jail had done a fine job. Ian wondered whether, by writing a story about a man building a jail, he’d become engaged in deconstruction?
“I wonder how the builder felt,” he mused aloud, “when he woke up in here?”
Gordon gazed through the holes in the roof toward the blue sky. “He might have felt just fine, I think. … Maybe he got himself thrown in jail on purpose.”
This was a possibility Ian had not thought of, but he liked it.
The tiers of Lyne’s gaol rose in steady progression, three or four logs each day. Rhythmic bites of the blade punctuated the summer afternoons, wood chips glittered as they flew from his axe. He did not hurry. He was making it to last. Thoughts ambled through his mind. The rush for gold perplexed him. He considered that most involved in it were blind fools, but Lyne was resigned to this as nothing new. By ten o’clock he would remove his shirt, and his shoulders were burnished by the slow arc of the sun. Pungent pitch and slivers caught in the red hair of his arms. His heart beat strong. He squinted, his brows knit as he scored black pencil lines for each notch. When gusts of music came he glanced toward the fiddler, and the goat, and took quiet amusement in their antics. When the sternwheeler docked, Lyne might pause momentarily to watch the passengers who disembarked.
After the log walls were complete, he drove his wagon to the sawmill and returned next day with a full load of sawn lumber and cedar shakes to complete the roof.
The fiddler and the goat showed greater cheer each day as the task neared completion. The old man rose stiffly from the stump, and circled the building with his music. The goat wagged his scruffy chin and chortled as he danced. Prompted by their shenanigans, Lyne himself gave the odd bark of a chuckle.
One of the last afternoons, as he was perched on the roof nailing shakes, a rickety carriage passed with three ladies in it, all of whom smiled upward at Lyne. His hammer halted in mid-air. Politely he nodded in return, blushed somewhat beneath his beard, stirred by the current of blood beneath his skin. Well, perhaps these weren’t ladies in the strictest, righ
teous sense of the word — but certainly women to be reckoned with. Their gaily coloured skirts fluttered as the carriage wheeled through town, yet their smiles lingered, hovered like lively wee birds around his head.
Two days later the roof was complete. Then two small windows were sawn high in one wall and fitted with bars. The door was cut in the centre of the western wall, facing the river. And Lyne spent the final day of the job fashioning a stout plank door, fitting the hinges and iron lock, at last hanging it in place. As he tidied up these tasks he recalled the faces and smiles of the women who had passed by, the joyful flutter of their skirts. Now that the job was done he felt a bit of a hankering to mark the occasion, to celebrate.Both the fiddler and the goat gave boisterous support to this notion.
Later that afternoon Messrs. Wright and Dunleavy and the constable dropped by, to thank Lyne for a job well done, and deliver his payment. Constable John now took possession of the key. The four of them, along with a number of townsfolk, slowly circled the building, praised it from every angle.
After all the others had returned to their own concerns, the evening meal and so forth, Lyne stood there for a few moments by himself. He took quiet satisfaction in the sight of his work, wry amusement in his own fondness for the simple stout gaol, and his reluctance now to walk away from it. But he was not entirely alone, he then realized, from a slight stirring in the shade of the cottonwood grove. The fiddler and the goat were there. They had kept a respectful few minutes’ silence. But the goat was easily bored by solemnity, and as Lyne glanced their way the billy gave a lewd wink, which jolted the builder from his reverie. He laughed aloud.
First he treated himself to a full-course meal in the eating house. Then he made his way to the general store, though it had closed for the day, which required that he knock long and loud on the door before getting any service. Ignoring the proprietor’s protests, he demanded a pouch of the finest Virginia tobacco on hand, and a gallon of the local hooch, Pinchbeck’s Jawbone.
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